


Interlude

by vlalekat



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: A lot of banging, Canon Character of Color, Canon Het Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlalekat/pseuds/vlalekat
Summary: There’s a soft footstep and then, suddenly, two slim arms wrap around his chest, giving him a squeeze, and there it is again: the scent of mutfruit and honey, sweet in his nose cavity.Nora.He takes a long drag from his smoke, half-turned to look at her. She’s petite but rounded in the right places - years of pre-war living have left her soft, despite the hardships of the last year. Her skin is the color of coffee with cream, and her eyes are large and dark, shimmering like stars.“Hello,” she purrs softly, and he turns around her, taking her under his shoulder as she relaxes her grip on him. When she takes the cigarette from him, their fingers touch and he can feel that spark dance between them. She inhales slowly and oh - how he loves to watch that perfect mouth breathe the smoke back out.He shudders.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have writer's block on what I planned to be working on. Instead of that, I give you this porn?

The night air is crisp with the scent of fall, like fresh mutfruit and newly-harvested razorgrain. Since his nose sloughed off some five, six years back, Hancock doesn’t smell very well, but this he can smell - or, at least, he can remember the smells of fall, it’s close enough to real thing. It was only a year ago that he met Nora, and somehow now the smell of fall is inextricably linked to the thought of her. 

The stonework under his hands is crumbling with age; the callouses of his hands are dusted with fine powder, and he wipes them distractedly on his pants, discovering a new hole in the threadbare duds. Everything around him is falling apart, even himself, he thinks with a wry smile. He fishes a pack of cigarettes out of an inside pocket and lights one; the flare is bright against the black of the night. Below, far below the balcony where he stands, he can hear a drunk stumbling out of the Third Rail, singing one of Magnolia’s songs.

That’s the only reason he can come up with that he missed the sound of the door opening behind him. There’s a soft footstep and then, suddenly, two slim arms wrap around his chest, giving him a squeeze, and there it is again: the scent of mutfruit and honey, sweet in his nose cavity.

_ Nora _ .

He takes a long drag from his smoke, half-turned to look at her. She’s petite but rounded in the right places - years of pre-war living have left her soft, despite the hardships of the last year. Her skin is the color of coffee with cream, and her eyes are large and dark, shimmering like stars.

“Hello,” she purrs softly, and he turns around her, taking her under his shoulder as she relaxes her grip on him. When she takes the cigarette from him, their fingers touch and he can feel that spark dance between them. 

She inhales slowly and oh - how he loves to watch that perfect mouth breathe the smoke back out.

He shudders.

“Smoking’ll kill you,” he teases, taking the cigarette back from her. She smiles like a cat. “Look what it did to me.”

This earns a giggle. “My people _ invented  _ smoking, John. At weddings, you should have seen my sitty with the hookah. It was just part of the fun.”

He tries to picture these things - a wedding. A hookah. There’s so many things she knows about, things that are lost to history, that were lost when the bombs fell, that she alone knows. 

But the night is too beautiful to think about the fact that her world is gone; she’s here now, warm in his arms, and above them the stars wink down. 

She’s  _ so _ warm in his arms - for some reason she’s wearing a little pink dress with roses on it. He wonders briefly why she’s dressed up, but then decides it must be for him. She’s always doing things like that - brings him gifts of chems, or scavenged items made into something new. And now he can feel her body under the cotton, and there’s a tightness in his pants.

He can feel her smile; there’s something in her body language and he knows when it happens even though he’s turned his gaze back up to the sky. She  _ did _ wear it for him. He grows harder at the thought; takes a last puff of his cigarette and crushes it out in the ashtray.

“Nice dress,” he turns now to look at her - to really,  _ really _ look at her - and it is nice. It’s pale against her skin, and the shiny black of her hair, and all he can think about now is the number of buttons at the top. He’s hungry for her, and when he flicks his eyes back up to her face, he can see the same desire reflected back. 

She doesn’t thank him; she never does when he compliments her. At first he thought she was stuck up, but now he knows better.

Especially since she’s leaned forward to kiss him gently on the throat. 

Her lips are tender against his scarred flesh. He thought he’d long forgotten softness, but the first time she’d kissed him, he realized how wrong he was. He wraps his arms around her, reveling in the thinness of her dress, in the way he can feel every curve of her under his hand, against his body. She gives an impatient wriggle against him, the same one she gives whenever he touches her hip, and he pulls her even closer to him. 

Below them, in the street, he can hear two drifters discussing the weather. Is it warm enough to sleep out tonight, or should they look for cover? Do they have enough caps to scrounge some food at Daisy’s? On his smoke breaks outside, he never realized how much idle chatter there was down there, but now he hears it for the first time.

He pulls back from her, putting one finger under her chin and looking in her eyes. Her lashes are long and dark, but even so her eyes burn and he knows what she wants. “Hey, darlin’ - don’t you want to head inside?”

Nora smiles, suddenly mischievous, and shakes her head in a silent no. Her hands have somehow made their way down to his pants, to the old-fashioned button fly, and he can feel himself straining against them as she easily undoes the fastenings. She’s so fast, so nimble, and with a gentle push, he finds himself leaning back against the stone wall. 

She looks back up at him, eyes huge in the darkness, and places a finger to her lips. 

_ Shh _ .

Then her head bobs down, and he’s in her mouth, her wet, warm mouth. He can feel his cock growing in there, reaching its full size. She grips it with one hand, moving gently - so gently - up and down the shaft, and her tongue works in the opposite direction and he has to stifle a moan.

Somehow his hands are in her hair, tangled in the silky strands, and he has to think hard not to grab hold and thrust himself into her.

Her mouth moves up; it moves down, and he wants more than anything to see her under that dress.

It’s easy enough to place a finger under her chin and guide her back up to standing. Her mouth is greedy and warm; the air is cool against his cock as stands in the air between them.

Then they’re together again, his lips on neck. He nibbles at her earlobe, and she pushes against him, a gasp stifled in the rich velvet of his shoulder. He can feel her mouth his name even as his fingers finally make their way to the buttons of her dress.

Which are confounding - the holes are too small, the buttons are covered in fabric, and before he knows what he’s doing, Hancock has grabbed the two sides of her dress and pulled them in opposite directions. She steps backwards towards the door, shocked, her breasts are exposed to the night air. He’s on her in a flash, his lips on one perfect nipple, one hand making its way up her skirt to find she’s not wearing any panties.

His fingers brush up against her skin, and when he touches her clit, he knows it because she spasms against him, a soft moan drifting out of her mouth and careening its way down the ragged buildings to the square below. The din below them quiets for a moment, everyone trying to figure out where it can from. Hancock lifts his face from her breast, and, looking her in the eye, claps his spare hand over her mouth.

Nora’s eyes are huge with want over the rough edge of his hand; he traces a finger around her clit, wondering at the wetness of her, and then slips the finger slowly inside her. She moans against his palm, and he shudders with want. He adds a second finger, moves them gently back and forth. Testing her.

When he looks down, he can see her breasts again, round and luscious like two fruits, and he takes his fingers from inside her, tracing them up her body, over her gently rounded stomach to the bare skin above. Her breasts are creamy, soft, exposed to the night. He places his hand, still wet from being insider her, over one breast. He traces the whole way around it, leaving a faint trail of her own wetness, before bringing his thumb and forefinger down on her nipple. He caresses it, then squeezes, watching her eyes the whole time.

She bucks against him, her eyes wide above his hand. He lowers his face to her breast again, taking a nipple into his mouth and - with some effort - creating enough suction to flick it with his tongue. He can faintly taste her wetness even as he feels her arms grab at his body, pulling him up to her face.

It’s a kiss, or it’s a battle; it’s passionate and before he knows it, his pants sit at his ankles and she’s wrapped one hand around his ass, grinding him against her.

“One minute, sister,” he murmurs in her ear, turning her away from him with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She knows what he wants, somehow; she places her hands on the stone wall barring the end of the balcony. When he lifts the hem of her dress, she wiggles her naked ass at him.

It’s a tease; a taunt. And he knows just what to do with it.

Sliding into her is like coming home. If her mouth was warm, and wet, this is a thousand times more so. Facing out, he can see the sky beyond, and Hancock tries to count the stars even as she flexes around him, even as he slides in and out and against her welcoming slickness.

Beneath him, he can feel her shudder. He leans forward, bending over her back, and together they look down at the people below. A fight is breaking out; someone has a knife and another a gun. There’s shouting, and Nora’s face is pressed against the stone, and her mouth is open in a moan no one can hear.

She rubs up against him and then there’s the familiar urgency; he moves faster inside her. Nora squeezes him gently, and he lets his hand drift from her hip to her breast, to the nipple so hard it could cut. He fiddles with it, and she pants into the stonework, and he pants into her hair.

The end is close now; three stories below them, the fight has gotten serious and someone on the sideline seems to be taking bets. He moves against her, inside her, and she smacks one fist into the stone pillar once, twice, three times. When his climax comes, it reminds him of the first hit of Jet he ever took - a moment of calm in the madness. 

He leans against her back, pumping the last of it half-heartedly, and he can already feel the wetness dripping down her leg where it presses against his own. Nora lets out a small sigh, a shuddering gasp from her own orgasm, and he presses a kiss against her back, through her dress. The fabric smells of Abraxo.

Soon - but it’s always too soon - he pulls out of her, and she turns to face him. The neck of her dress, destroyed in his haste, hangs open, and she has an abrasion on her cheek from leaning on the stone wall. Her eyes, though, are sleepy with satisfaction, sated. In the square, he can hear the locals drifting apart; at some point the fight must have ended.

Nora looks up at him, a lazy smile crossing her face. 

“John,” she asks, leaning against the door. “Have you got a smoke?”

  
He’s only too happy to oblige.


End file.
